


Devil's Advocate

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of 'Divergence', Captain Archer has a difficult decision to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.
> 
> OCs Bernhard Muller and Em Gomez used by kind permission of Volley and Chrysa.
> 
> Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, deeply indebted for her time and help.

“Bridge to Captain Archer.”

It was the call he’d been expecting, to notify him that the Starfleet ships had finally cleared Klingon space.  The news that the three Birds of Prey that had seen _Enterprise_ and _Columbia_ off the premises had turned around and left without a word was equally unsurprising; civility would have been an ask too much, considering it had probably been almost more than Fleet Admiral Krell could stomach to let the enemy ships escape at all.

Right on cue, the intraship communication chirped.  “ _Columbia_ to Captain Archer.”

“Archer.”

The familiar face of Erika Hernandez appeared on his monitor screen.  Her expression was somber, though there was both affection and resignation in her gaze.

“I guess it’s time to head back for the official launch,” said _Columbia’_ s captain wryly; their rescue run had been completely unscheduled, but would probably be written into the records as a trial flight.  “And for you it’s back out to the boondocks.”

“We have a few things to sort out first,” Jon answered heavily.  “Sorry you’re going home minus your new chief engineer for a while."

Erika shrugged. "If he hadn't done such a great job of getting _Columbia_ ready to go, you and _Enterprise_ would be history.  But however brilliant a guy is, he’ll only work his best if he’s happy _._   I think he’s where he belongs.”

That was one of the things that had to be sorted out.  Because even now he hadn’t a clue why the hell Trip had left in the first place – and until that particular mystery was solved, he couldn’t regard the situation as resolved at all.  Officially, Trip was still a member of _Columbia’_ s crew – until, or unless, he requested a transfer back to _Enterprise_ , as Erika believed he would.

There was more than one issue that was still unresolved on board his ship.  But Erika would know that as well as he did.

“Don’t forget, you owe me dinner next time we meet up.”  She straightened resolutely in her chair, and her eyes twinkled at him.  “Better start saving now.”

“I never said I’d let you choose the restaurant.”  He made an effort to return the smile, but felt as though it was no more than a contortion of the muscles of his face – one that dragged at the cranial ridges on his forehead, which still hadn’t quite disappeared.

The twinkle disappeared.  She watched him sympathetically.  “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”  With a sigh he straightened the pile of PADDs in front of him.  “Take care of yourself, Erika.”

“Same to you, Jon.”  Her mouth softened into the smallest suggestion of a blown kiss, and then she leaned forward and cut the connection.

Just occasionally it still seemed weird to him that a ship as huge as the _NX_ class could move without a sound; that all the power in those great twin nacelles could drive a starship at superluminal speeds in absolute silence.  At any moment now _Columbia_ would dart away on her new bearing, heading for home and all the last touches before her official launch; but here on _Enterprise,_ so close that when you looked out the viewing port it seemed you could stand on the saucer of one and hit the other with a thrown tin can, not so much as a quiver of the superstructure would betray the fact.

He touched the power button on the monitor, and the screen darkened instantaneously.

With a sigh that was so deep it could have been fetched up from the bottom of his lungs, he put his elbows on the desk and rested his face in his hands.  He was so tired he almost didn’t flinch from the feeling of the ridges on his brow.

It was well past time he was asleep; damn, his whole body was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to roll onto his bed and find oblivion.  But he knew all too well that the minute he lay down he’d start thinking….

What the heck had gone wrong?  Had it been something he should have foreseen, could have prevented?  He’d had the flagship of the Fleet under his command, with a crew that was the best a man could ask for: the crew who’d pulled off the impossible against the Xindi.

Had that been part of the problem?  Had that cursed mission demanded too much of them, created flaws like stress fractures in the ship’s command structure that time had worsened until finally the load became too great to withstand?  He knew how much it had taken out of all of them, god knew he was in the best position of all to know; sometimes even now he relived the damn thing in his dreams, woke sweating and trembling in some nightmare scenario plucked from his memories.

Of them all, perhaps only Phlox had emerged unscathed – or at least it seemed so, but for all the Denobulan’s air of boundless good nature, Jon had learned over the course of the voyage that even the doctor’s people had their own specters, their own flaws.  If Phlox bore scars, they would be well hidden from view.

Travis, maybe, had suffered the least.  Jon was glad for that: his helmsman’s youthful optimism was a reminder of what he’d set out with himself, and he knew firsthand how painful a process losing it was. Nevertheless, the experience had gone far towards making Travis Mayweather the sort of man who’ll sit in his own command chair one day.  That thought would have been a more cheerful one if all sorts of suspicions over the Romulans’ plans weren’t souring Jon’s guts; he’d sat up late several nights talking the thing over with Erika, who believed as firmly as he did that this business with the drone ships was the prelude to big trouble, but getting the bigwigs at Starfleet to see that was a different matter altogether.  If he was right, though, being the captain of a starship might soon be a completely different role to that in which he’d started out.

Hoshi had borne up better than he’d ever have expected.  She’d matured so much over the past few years.  But though she was a far cry now from the scared little girl who squeaked when the deck plating quivered, he wondered how well she’d gotten over the experience she’d endured at the hands of the Xindi reptilians.  He knew himself how brutal, how downright _terrifying_ they could be, and he hadn’t been subjected to hours of invasive interrogation for specific information.  His torture at their hands had been more for their gratification than edification.  They’d just wanted him to feel helpless in their hands, to listen to them gloating over Earth’s downfall.  He couldn’t imagine how it must have been for a young woman to endure their grasping hands, to have them bending over her rasping their endless demands for the launch code, to be subjected to whatever goddamned devices they’d used on her before they’d finally succeeded in breaking her.

She’d recovered well, externally.  The marks on her lovely face had faded, and she seemed as professional and cheerful as ever.  But she was no longer the half-child who’d run to him complaining the stars were going the wrong way.  She’d face her memory demons alone, courageously, and deal with them.

Trip – well, he was going to have to find the time for a long talk with Trip when the engines were back to full par.  Right now the Floridian was utterly absorbed in inspecting every element of his domain with jealous zeal, setting right what had gone so disastrously wrong in his absence.  Not that it was Kelby’s fault; he’d done his best, but he simply didn’t have the instinctive feeling for the ship’s engine that Trip did.  Nevertheless, he’d been promoted to Chief Engineer when Trip left; if the expected transfer request did materialize – a request that Jon certainly wouldn’t decline, assuming he’d been able to straighten things out between himself and Trip in the meantime – Kelby was bound to feel even more resentful than he did already.  And if Trip didn’t decide to come home, _Enterprise_ would be left with a Chief Engineer who felt himself second-best, who would be unsure of his own abilities and decisions, and who knew full well that his captain and crew felt nothing like the confidence in him than they had in his predecessor.  Because the brutal truth was that if it hadn’t been for Trip doing what couldn’t be done, the ship and everyone aboard her would now be a scattered trail of interstellar debris.

T’Pol. 

Now there was a mystery. 

His experiences on Vulcan had given him a lot of insight into his XO’s previously unguessed-at depths, and indeed those of her people.  Carrying Surak’s _katra_ around in his head, for however short a time, had been a unique experience that was bound to have ramifications.  Maybe, if he ever got around to having the time to really think about it, he’d grasp all the ways in which it had influenced his thinking ever since; but time was always a scarce commodity in a starship captain’s life at the best of times, and he still had that cold feeling in his guts that if events were headed in the direction he thought they were, it would very shortly become a whole lot scarcer.

Nevertheless, he still knew that something had wrought deep changes in T’Pol.  Changes that he needed to understand, because they affected his relationship with her and her position as XO of the ship.  Changes that could yet influence the course of events aboard _Enterprise_ .  Just lately, the suspicion that … _something_ … was going on between her and Trip had gotten stronger and more persistent.  Oh, he’d had inklings of it for a while, but the notion had always been so incredible that he’d managed to dismiss it as a flight of fancy.  A Vulcan and the most emotional man on the ship?  ‘Chalk and cheese’ didn’t come anywhere near it.

Well, it would go a long ways towards explaining Trip’s flight from _Enterprise._   Jon knew Trip well enough to guess that his friend would find unrequited love utterly unendurable in the confines of the ship.  But it didn’t explain why T’Pol had – yes, _drooped_ during his absence.  You couldn’t put a finger on it, of course; there hadn’t been the slightest failing in her efficiency levels.  She was far too disciplined for that.  But nevertheless, there had been something.  Something that should – indeed _must –_ be addressed.  Not to mention his own far from simple reaction to the idea, which was _another_ thing he’d have to address – sooner or later.

Whenever he had time.

Which brought him squarely to the one problem he _couldn’t_  put off till he had time to deal with it.

Malcolm.


	2. Chapter 2

The shrill of the alarm clock brought Jon from a sleep that felt as though it had lasted hardly more than a couple of minutes.

He rolled out of his wreck of a bed and stumbled into the shower half-asleep, on the way sparing an absent-minded pat for Porthos, who came to greet him with a wagging tail.  The astringent odor of his shower gel penetrated the fog of weariness as he slathered it onto his body, so that within a couple of moments his brain started to get a grip on the schedule for the day ahead.

His stomach clenched.  For a moment his hands stopped, arrested in the act of scrubbing shampoo through his hair. 

Today was a day he’d never believed he’d have to face.

Then habit took over.  He somehow achieved a shrug, and got on with the business of getting ready. 

=/\= 

Breakfast was a silent affair, at least on his part.

Trip, as always in an emergency, took over the conversational duties.  Fortunately he had plenty to say, mostly on the subject of the number of repairs that were still required and how he’d planned to organize the teams to carry them out.  Mostly they wouldn’t affect the ship’s standard functions, but he mentioned that there might be times when _Enterprise_ might have to come to a stop for a while.

“Won’t hold us up longer’n I can help, Cap’n,” he added with a valiant attempt at cheerfulness; of course, a man far less attuned to atmosphere than Trip would be well aware that something was wrong.

Jon balled his napkin and set it down on the table beside his half-eaten breakfast.  “Get your teams organized first thing, Trip.  I’ll want to speak to you later.  T’Pol, meet me in my ready room at oh-eight-hundred.”

“Yes, Captain.”  She’d done her part in holding up the conversation, but she’d been watching him as intently as a cat.

“There’s no problem with that, is there?” he added belatedly.

She shook her head.  “I’m preparing reports on the Berengarius system.  It’s nothing that can’t wait.  We won’t arrive for some days yet.”

Normally this was the point at which Trip’s curiosity would be rampant.  Today, however, his forced cheer deflated visibly.  He pushed away what remained of his meal and rose.  “Well, I’d better get on with the organizin’ then,” he remarked flatly, and walked out.

Not so long ago, he’d have been included by right at some point in the debate to come; that was when he’d been Malcolm’s immediate superior, and his input would have been required and valued.  Right now, however, that alien patch was still effectively on his sleeve.  He wasn’t one of _Enterprise_ ’s command structure.  He was an officer on loan from another ship.

The pain and anger and bewilderment of that fact felt like salt in the still-open wound of his going.

T’Pol’s gaze was steady; Jon fancied he could read sympathy in it.  “This is not your fault, sir,” she said at last.

Once upon a time he’d have agreed with her.  Today, however, his once easy confidence in himself was no longer what it had been.  He was no longer complacent, no longer convinced that he had all the answers.  That his officers’ failings were all their own fault, and nothing to do with him.

Maybe this too was yet another consequence of his lack of experience, of competence, of observation, of – heck, of _something._ Maybe there had been something that he’d done or failed to do, something that had been a key factor in one of his most trusted officers being unable to trust him.

Trust.

That was what held the whole thing together.  You trusted your crew and they trusted you.

And when it breaks?

He heaved a sigh.  “That’s what we have to find out today.”

He wasn’t even sure which of the two he was answering.


	3. Chapter 3

The Bridge was quiet when he stepped out of the turbo-lift.  Everyone was at their stations, and the atmosphere was one of the usual professional calm.

T'Pol was at the science console.  At his entrance, she stopped whatever she’d been doing and rose.

There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary in the two of them holding a meeting in his Ready Room first thing.  But he knew that although none of the heads lifted or even turned, he knew that one person at least was following his movements with painful intensity.  Time, after all, had just run out.

It was unnecessary to elaborate on the reasons for the meeting.  When his XO was settled, the captain played her a recording of his conversations with Harris and with Malcolm, all of which she watched attentively and in silence.

When they were finished, she switched off the monitor.

“You are unsure of how to proceed with regard to Lieutenant Reed,” she stated calmly.

“Yes.”  What point was there in denying it?  “He’s not who I thought he was.  He’s…” Even after all his hours of trying to put his nebulous misgivings into words, he was reduced to a helpless wave of the hand.  “He’s someone … different.”

“A ‘sleeper’.”  With her service for the V’Shar, of course she’d be familiar with the term. 

Yes, that was it in a nutshell.  A ‘sleeper.’  A man in the service of a shadowy spy organization, who’d maintained the perfect cover as a hardworking, dedicated starship officer – right up till the moment when the man who’d placed him there gave him his orders.  And then all of that beautifully-crafted façade had just fallen apart, until all there was left was a liar and a saboteur and a stranger, wearing two rank pips on an _Enterprise_ uniform.

Given the level of risk involved in their advance on Qu’Vat, it had seemed only logical to have the best man available at the Tactical station.  That, after all, was one of the foremost reasons why he’d chosen Malcolm Reed in the first place.  In a firefight, no-one on the ship could handle the weapons console with half his skill and precision.  Nevertheless, the captain had made it clear that the restoration was conditional.  Sooner or later, there would have to be a full reckoning made; and Reed had accepted the _fiat_ silently, recognizing the fact that judgment was merely postponed, and not put off indefinitely.

Now that the ship was clear of Klingon space, there seemed no reason for prolonging the agony.  But it seemed only fair to talk the thing over first, with an officer whose perception right now was possibly the clearest on board.  Jon was all too aware that his thinking was clouded with pain, anger and resentment; Malcolm’s actions had seemed the most heinous of betrayals, all the worse for coming from a man whose sense of honor had seemed so absolute even in the worst days of the Xindi crisis.  If things could be viewed in a more dispassionate way there might even be some way to get through this with his staff intact – and if he _was_ right, and war with the Romulans was not far off, then the last thing _Enterprise_ needed was to lose the best weapons officer in the Fleet.

“I imagine,” T'Pol said slowly, after a pause, “that your problem lies not so much in forgiving Mister Reed for what he did – but in believing that it will never happen again.”

“He told me it was over,” Jon answered, looking back to the tense encounter in Malcolm’s quarters.  “He said he’d made a mistake, that he wished he’d done differently.  But how much do I _want_ to believe him, T'Pol?  _Do_ I believe him?  _Can_ I?  _Should_ I?”

He’d sat down behind his desk, but sprang up, and turned to the viewing port behind him.  The stars streaked past, indifferent.  “Everything I ever believed about him could be a lie.  I've tried to find out more about his involvement with – this ‘Section’.  I just come up against a brick wall.  Even Gardner basically warned me off. 

“Just who _are_ these people?  How far does their influence stretch?  Who do they answer to?”

“I would imagine that the answer to that would be found considerably further up the Starfleet chain of command,” she answered ruefully.  “The unfortunate truth is that all Governments have secrets.  Vulcan has the V’Shar.  Earth has the UEIA.  Starfleet doubtless finds it useful to have its own secret arm of operations.  If the truth came out it would undoubtedly be deeply damaging, however distasteful you and I may find keeping it secret.”

He heaved a sigh.  “I guess so,” he admitted.  “But right now what bothers me is whether I can afford to take the risk of keeping one of their operatives on my ship.”

She said nothing for a moment.  Then, “Where there is one, there may be others.”

The truth of this statement was so obvious he could only wonder that he hadn't seen it before.  How the heck was he supposed to know?  Malcolm’s front had been perfect, right up till the moment it shattered before his eyes.  Who was to say who else around the ship could be just such another fake, planted to watch, listen and – when necessary – act?

After giving himself a few seconds to absorb that fact and all its associated horrors, he shook it off as irrelevant for the present.   “You’re probably right,” he said grimly, seating himself at his desk again, “but just at this moment I've got to deal with the one I know about.”

“In the circumstances, you would be perfectly justified in dismissing Mister Reed from his post.”  Her face was perfectly neutral.  “If you did so, he would probably face a court-martial.  And given the evidence, it is unlikely that he would escape conviction.”

“He should have thought of that before he sabotaged my mission and lied to my face,” he snapped.

“He undoubtedly did.”  She held his gaze steadily.  “If I understand the purpose of this meeting, Captain, you wish me to fulfill the function that humans term ‘Devil’s Advocate’, in order for you to clarify your thoughts.  If this is the case, I understand that you will become emotional.  This is a difficult time for you.”

From somewhere Jon salvaged the ghost of a smile; she understood him so well.

“If you decide to proceed against the lieutenant, you must also be aware that you will encounter resistance, if not outright opposition, from Commander Tucker.  He is Mister Reed’s friend as well as his erstwhile superior officer.  And it will also have a negative effect on the crew.  Whatever his other loyalties, Lieutenant Reed has run what humans term ‘a tight ship’; he is extremely well-respected, even liked, by his department.  And his skills as a weapons and tactical officer are indisputable.”

He bit back the demand as to in how much esteem Malcolm would be held once the news leaked out (as it would) that he’d been cashiered for treason to his captain and his ship.  He knew that the truth would destroy much of the initial sympathy for the disgraced lieutenant, but that the shock would be another damaging blow to his crew’s morale.  The rumor mill had doubtless had a field day already with the time one of its most senior officers had been locked in his own brig; his restoration (for only he and Malcolm knew it was conditional) would probably have done something to damp down the fires of speculation, but nevertheless Jon knew that such events were deeply unsettling for a crew.

So for the good of the ship, there could be no half-measures.  He either admitted Malcolm back unconditionally, or he got shot of him.

It didn’t need T'Pol to point out that the latter would be a deeply divisive and disruptive move.  Not least as far as Trip was concerned – depending on how he viewed the matter when it was explained to him, it was an action that could well decide the engineer against returning to _Enterprise_ permanently.

It had dawned on Jon sometime in the broken watches of the night that Trip’s departure itself could possibly be something to do with Malcolm.  Had the Section decided – for their own purposes – that Trip would be of use aboard _Columbia_?  That he was an asset that should be saved from a planned destruction of _Enterprise_?  Had Reed used some lever or other to compel his senior officer to leave?  It would certainly explain Trip’s refusal to give any explanation for his extraordinary request; silence could easily have been one of the conditions imposed on him.  It was next to impossible that Trip himself could have any murky secret that could be used against him, almost as unlikely as the idea that he would have connived at any plan to destroy _Enterprise_ , but who knew?  There could have been some plausible threat made against what remained of his family.  If the Section’s reach extended to a starship millions of kilometers from Earth, it was entirely possible for it to reach Florida…

 _Oh, this was just nonsense!_ Stuff from the pages of some lurid novel, bearing no resemblance to real life.  But it fit the facts.

Once your trust in one of a given set of truths is destroyed, on which of those that are left do you rely?

If Trip’s departure was indeed the outcome of another of Malcolm’s actions, it was yet another serious reason to get him off the ship in short order. But if it wasn't – and how, or whether, that could ever be established satisfactorily was another question – then Trip would certainly take some convincing that Malcolm should be dismissed from his post.  If he  _couldn't_ be convinced, and his departure was indeed no more than a coincidence, his anger on his friend’s behalf might possibly influence him against any nebulous idea of returning to _Enterprise._   And that was an outcome that Jon was anxious to avoid if humanly possible, though he wouldn't allow it to deflect him from his clear duty … if he could only get around to deciding what his clear duty was.

And as if Trip wouldn't be enough trouble, Malcolm had two deputies who were devoted to him.  Bernhard and Em had been his own appointees (yes, that reflection was suddenly troubling too!), and had been his able supporters in running the department like a well-oiled machine.  Müller would brood for a few days and then ask for an interview with his _Kapitan_ in which it was more than likely he would politely present a transfer request; Em would be at his door within fifteen minutes of the news breaking, and storm at him in Spanish, utterly regardless of the fact that even though he’d hardly be able to understand one word in ten he’d be absolutely certain that before she was halfway through the first sentence she’d have said enough to merit joining her boss in the brig.

Jon realized belatedly that he’d lapsed into silence, but that T'Pol was waiting patiently for him to re-emerge from his black thoughts

Well.  Maybe she wasn't the best person to turn to for advice about Trip, but he had no-one else to consult.  And maybe this might offer him a handle on that other question about what the hell had been going on between those two all this time.

“I realize,” he began carefully, “that maybe I’m being a little paranoid here.  But it’s occurred to me that maybe Malcolm may have been responsible for Trip leaving _Enterprise._ ”

For all her Vulcan stoicism, something flickered far back in her eyes.  “What makes you think so, Captain?”

“Well.  Trip leaves the ship, and then all of a sudden we get a problem only he can solve.  The Section were in cahoots with the Klingons all along here.  Who’s to say that they didn't know exactly what that boarding party were going to do to our subroutines?  Who’s to say they didn't _arrange_ it?”

“You are, in fact, alleging that this was a plot between Section 31 and the Klingon Empire to destroy  _Enterprise_ ,” she said levelly. 

“You think the Empire would be above arranging that?”  He couldn't keep the edge of sarcasm out of his voice.

There was a long pause before she answered. 

“I prefer to believe that many of the High Council would rather dispose of you by more honorable means,” she said at last.  “But I cannot absolutely dismiss the possibility that some such arrangement was made.  There is ample evidence that not all of the High Council adhere to the Klingon code of honor.

“Nevertheless, Captain, I believe that Mister Reed is innocent of being the cause, directly or indirectly, of Commander Tucker’s departure.”

_Aha.   _He deliberately kept his face absolutely neutral, suffocating the little surge of entirely inappropriate interest in what he might be able to discover with this line of debate.  Because she must intend to back up that statement with evidence, or at least reasoning.

After another, even longer pause – or perhaps it just felt that way to him, for reasons he preferred not to look into too closely – she continued.  “There has been … tension between myself and Commander Tucker for some considerable time.”  A glance down at her hands on the table, which were joined, their knuckles now white.  “During our time in the Expanse, there was a … an incident.  I acted inappropriately, for reasons which I would prefer to keep private.  It affected my personal relationship with the Commander and his with me.  Unfortunately, I believe it affected him to such a degree that he decided to leave the ship rather than remain in proximity to me.  Various things he said prior to putting in his transfer request left me in little doubt as to his reasoning.  I perceive no reason to doubt it now.”  She hesitated.  “There is one other matter that I must request you to keep strictly private.”

He nodded.  Their long association and the trust it had built up demanded that much.

“The …  _incident_ … resulted in…”  She paused, obviously choosing her words with extreme care.

_A pregnancy.  Dear god, he got her pregnant as well._ Jon didn't know whether to howl with insane laughter, scream with anguish or roar with fury.

“For Vulcans, sexual intercourse can have additional … consequences,” she went on, oblivious.  “It can also result in a  _mental_ bond being established between the two parties concerned. 

“I was guilty of negligence in not considering more fully whether that might happen between myself and the commander.”  Her voice was heavy with self-reproach.  “But since he was a Human, it did not seem likely, if indeed it was possible.  And my – reasons – outweighed the risks at the time.  At least, I thought they did.”

The captain took a moment to organize his thoughts.  Some of them were going to take a lot of rearranging, but that was for another time (yet another thing to add to the almost endless list).  He dragged his mind back to the problem in hand, trying desperately to emulate her discipline.  “So why are you telling me this now?  Why do you feel this has any bearing on Malcolm?” As if he didn't have enough to deal with, an emotion he now recognized with shame as jealousy had suddenly popped up and was screaming _For the love of Mike, don’t tell me you had an ‘incident’ with my tactical officer as well._

“The experiment with Commander Tucker  _did_ result in the formation of a mating bond,” she replied.  “Through it, I have some ‘awareness’ of his emotions.  I believe that I would be able to sense it if he was acting under compulsion from a third party.  I have sensed nothing that would suggest such a thing.  His actions have been entirely under his own direction.”

Jon rose and walked to the window again.  The passionless stars outside always enabled him to put his troubles into perspective, but many hours of thought would be necessary before he would be able to fit what he’d learned today into parts of an orderly universe – if, indeed, he ever could.  His Vulcan XO  _experimenting_ sexually with a junior officer?  One whom she must know was emotionally charged at the best of times, and utterly vulnerable after the Xindi attack on Earth?

Maybe something could be put down to the Expanse affecting her mentally, the way it had affected the crew of the  _Vaankara._ He should be thankful that it had been nothing so extreme as had happened there.  Protecting their ship from anomalies with Trellium-D had turned the crew of the  _Seleya_ into homicidal zombies too; one way or another, the Expanse had posed a deadly danger to Vulcans.

Sooner or later he’d have to have a longer talk with her about this, find out what he could about how she’d been affected – after all, she might not have completely recovered from the experience.  He deliberately told himself not to pry for more details about what had happened between her and Trip, however much he might want to know.  His  _legitimate_ concern lay with her continued ability to function as his XO.  As for the ‘experiment’, her words seemed to imply that as far as she was concerned, it was a thing of the past, however Trip might regard it. 

But whatever he himself might feel about it, and however it might affect Trip’s intentions as regards a return to  _Enterprise_ , her difficult revelation had at least succeeded in laying to rest his fears regarding Malcolm’s involvement in Trip’s departure.  Of whatever else the Brit might have been guilty, that at least could not be laid at his door.

He was tempted, briefly, to ask her to carry out a mind-meld with Malcolm.  It would be one way to find out whatever other secrets his tactical officer might be hiding behind the mask.  But however tempting the idea might be, he turned his back on it.  He already knew that melding was something with which his First Officer was deeply uncomfortable, and the chances of Reed voluntarily agreeing to submit to it were virtually zero.  Both of them might co-operate if they were ordered to do it, but on a moral level this would be unpardonable, on a par with ordering one of his officers to rape the other; it was more than likely that both participants would be absolutely traumatized.  Maybe back in the Expanse, if it had for some reason been the only way to find the Xindi weapon, he might have … he hoped not, but back then his integrity had been just another casualty.  For all the pretensions to ‘civilization’, when it boiled down to basics, survival had been the bottom line.  That it was survival for his species and his home world rather than for himself hadn’t significantly sugared the pill.   _The jungle just got a whole lot bigger, is all,_ he thought to himself morosely.

Yes. Jungle was the word.  A jungle of lies and half-truths, of suspicion and deceit.  Not one in which he’d ever been comfortable, but one in which he was now embroiled, because one of his own damned officers had taken the decision that he couldn't be trusted – had preferred to obey the orders of an old handler from the Department of Dirty Tricks rather than confide in his own captain.

“I guess we could talk this over for the rest of the day and not get anywhere with it,” he said at length, turning from the window.  “Bottom line is, T'Pol, I’m not sure I can get over what Malcolm did.  I’m not sure I can go on trusting him when he didn't trust me.”

“You have trusted him with your own life and the lives of the crew on countless occasions,” she reminded him noncommittally.  “I believe that Humans have a saying, ‘Every man’s entitled to one mistake.’”

“This was one hell of a ‘mistake’, T'Pol.  He damn near got us all killed.”

“Himself included.”

It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue to snap  _‘Serve him right!’_ , but he had to remind himself that however heinous Malcolm’s behavior had been, in the end Phlox had been able to pull off a rescue that put the Empire (however reluctantly) in Starfleet’s debt.  It was unlikely that this indebtedness would be anything but a sore under the Klingons’ saddle for the foreseeable future, but nevertheless it must surely have planted seeds in some quarters as to the Earth organization’s willingness to offer help – however ungraciously received.  Had Malcolm not carried out his orders  _Enterprise_ would have caught up the freighter and rescued Phlox, and the plague would have rampaged unchecked throughout the Empire, killing thousands of innocent people.

And had Malcolm confided, as he should have done, in the captain of the ship he served?  Would that faith have been justified?  Would Jon have tamely gone along with the Section’s orders, and abandoned his doctor to the whims of fate at the hands of the Klingons?  Ironically, it was his own presence at Qu’Vat that had tipped the scales, and only his refusal to obey the Section’s orders had put him there.  If he’d obeyed the Section, true, _Enterprise_ would have been in no danger, but on the other hand Phlox’s mission would have failed, because Krell would have destroyed the research station.  So both his actions and Malcolm’s had contributed to the success of the mission.  But as to whether he would, whether he _could_ have knuckled under and followed orders from a guy he neither knew nor trusted, and whose authority rested in a part of Starfleet that was kept so far beneath the radar that even he, the captain of the fleet’s flagship, had never heard of it – well, when you looked at it that way, it was probably just as well that the question would always remain academic.

Jon heaved a sigh – something he seemed to be doing a great deal today - and returned to his moody study of the stars.  Malcolm’s actions had been wrong – but had his reasoning been right?

But even granting that – and it wasn't easy to do, because a part of him cried out that he _would_ have listened, that maybe he _would_ have played ball, and maybe, just maybe, everything would have worked out, and that whatever, he was the damned _ship’s captain_ and that decision shouldn't have been Malcolm’s to make – could he, should he, overlook the fact that Malcolm _had_ made it?  Could he, should he keep on his ship the best tactical officer in the Fleet, who might still be acting under Section 31’s instructions and could well continue to obey orders right until the time came for _dis_ obeying them?  Could he, should he take the risk of keeping at his side an officer who had the temerity – or the guts – to do what seemed right to him, even at the risk of his career?

Could he, should he, forgive and reinstate Malcolm Reed?

“I can’t trust him,” he said aloud, watching his reflection and thinking dully how much younger he'd looked back then, when  _Enterprise_ had launched and his hopes had been so high.  Now his face bore the lines etched on it by more than the time that had passed.  But through all of it, he'd never stopped believing in his officers and crew, never ceased to trust in their integrity.  Now, the one whose code of honor had seemed the most inflexible of all had taken that trust and shattered it.  And that was an obstacle he couldn’t find a way around.

How can you function with an officer you can’t trust?

You can’t.  Plain and simple.

You just can’t.

“Captain.”  T'Pol’s voice was very quiet.  She’d made no movement, just sat there watching him as though she could hear the clamor of opposing arguments wrangling themselves out in his head.  “Endless debate produces nothing save endless indecision.  You must settle this once and for all.  Make a decision and abide by it.”

He gave a mirthless chuckle.  “As long as I make the _right_ decision, fine,” he said bitterly.  “But after that business with the Romulan drone ships, I can’t get it out of my head that it’s not the last we’ll hear of them.  And when we hear from them again I don’t think we’ll enjoy the song.”

“Should the ship move on to a war footing, to have a man you do not trust in the position of _absolute_ trust is illogical,” she said levelly.  “Nor would Lieutenant Reed wish to be kept on board on a basis of fear.”

“He should be glad to be kept on board on any damned basis!” shouted Jon.

She looked back at him with that glacial Vulcan calm.  “You mistake him if you think so.”

“I _mistake_ him?”  He couldn't help it; his face must have shown his incredulity.  “I _mistake_ the man who sabotaged my mission and lied to my face?”

“He sabotaged your mission,” she agreed calmly.  “He had no way of knowing that the crew of the Rigelian freighter would be murdered, and if I am any judge of character he was as genuinely horrified by that as the rest of us.  As for the lies, they were childlike, bound to be found out, just as the microdyne coupler was bound to be found in the locker where he stowed it.  As the ship’s head of security he could have erased the record of his access to that locker; as the ship’s weapons officer he could have disposed – easily – of the coupler itself if he so chose.  He is, or was, a Covert Operations operative.  By his standards, he might as well have marched into your Ready Room with his hands in handcuffs.  Every one of his actions was intended to delay us – but never, ultimately, to escape detection.”

He sat down limply in his chair.  “Is there any point in me asking what _your_ opinion is?”

“As the Devil’s Advocate, sir, my opinion is irrelevant.  My function is to challenge _your_ opinion, and thus enable you to come to a resolution that is defensible on reasonable grounds."

Jon almost began to wish he’d asked Trip instead.  There were times when T'Pol’s resolute logic was downright exasperating.

“However,” she continued imperturbably, “if you _were_ to ask for my opinion, I would suggest that it would be at least a gesture of fairness to allow Lieutenant Reed to have his say before you come to your final decision.”

He caught his breath.  This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid: a repeat of those taut, painful interviews where Phlox’s life hung in the balance and everything he’d believed about his tactical officer – the man he’d thought of as a friend – was revealed to be a lie, a sham, a deliberate construct intended only to deceive.  If he’d had his way, once the decision was taken that Reed had to go (and there seemed little option to that end), he’d never have exchanged another word with the man.  It was just too painful, after the trust that had existed between them – yes, trust, that had survived the horrors of the Expanse and the soul-scarring orders he’d had to give and things he’d had to do.

But if he trusted anyone to tell him plainly what the right course of action, the _just_ course of action, should be, then that person was T'Pol.  And a captain couldn't, and shouldn't, pursue a course of action based on his personal sense of injury.  He should put the ship’s welfare before everything.  And if making the right decision for the ship’s welfare necessitated him talking one more time to a self-confessed traitor, then that was something he’d just have to steel himself to do.

Whatever it took.

He rose and crossed to a locker, and took out a bottle.  Turning, he met his XO’s faintly reproachful look, and smiled bitterly.  Time had been when he wouldn't drink on duty, but then time had been when he’d thought Earth was invulnerable and his officers were irreproachable.

He tipped the bottle over his empty coffee cup.  No more than a single swallow – enough to wash down the anger and the distaste, that was all.  And if it lent him some much-needed courage, well where was the harm in that?

The bottle was slid easily enough into the shadows under his desk.  Maybe later it could be restored to the locker, where it was usually kept only for visitors; maybe tonight he’d take it back to his room and find solace in it, if not the comforting conviction that _he’d done only what was best for the ship._

He touched the comm button.  “Archer to Lieutenant Reed.”

“Reed here.”  The English voice was so very controlled, as always.  It gave away nothing.

He made sure his own was just as void of inflection.  “Please come to my Ready Room, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.” 

There was the slightest pause.  Ever the professional, Malcolm wouldn't leave the Bridge until the Tactical Station was manned by a competent deputy.  Then the door hissed open, and Lieutenant Reed stepped down the short flight of steps from the Bridge.  His face was closed, but his eyes were wary.

He came to a halt in front of the captain’s desk, and stood at parade rest there.  His uniform was, as always, immaculate. His spine was as straight as discipline could make it.  His gaze hooked on the bulkhead opposite, and stuck there.  “Sir,” he said again.

Well.

Now for it. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you wish me to remain, Captain?”  T'Pol’s voice broke the silence, cool and collected.

Jon glanced at his armory officer.  “Do you have any objections, Lieutenant?”  _Not so long ago it would have been ‘Malcolm’,_ he thought with a pang.  But then, not so long ago he’d never have believed something like this would ever come to pass.  Hell, he was still having a problem with it now; it felt like one of those ghastly, unending nightmares where nobody acts like themselves but you can’t work out why.

Reed was so rigid he didn't even glance aside.  “No, sir.”

“I have a decision to make, Lieutenant,” Jon went on, his tone harder than he wanted it to be.  “I’m not pretending it’s an easy one.  Because ever since we launched, your record of loyalty to this ship – to me – has been exemplary.”

 _Till that goddamned Harris yanked your chain_ , the voice of resentment and hurt wanted to add, but he’d handed out enough reproaches; true, he was quite sure that the Brit was armored against him now, prepared to endure whatever he must without flinching, but still the memory of reducing the man to tears wasn't one of which he was proud.  Even now Malcolm was so reserved that it was difficult to realize that those formidable defenses concealed an unexpectedly vulnerable individual.

Reed said nothing.

“In one respect, I can understand that a past loyalty exerts – influence,” the captain went on a little more gently.  “You probably had reasons to trust this Harris.  Good reasons, perhaps.  But then, I thought you had good reasons to trust me.”

“I do trust you, sir.”  The English voice was deep, seeming to come from the bottom of his chest.  He seemed about to add more, but shut his mouth again. 

“Captain,” T'Pol intervened quietly.  “I wish to ask Mister Reed a question, which he must be free to answer – or not – as he chooses.  With your permission.”

Jon frowned.  “If it’ll help, be my guest.” 

He didn't miss the infinitesimal widening of the gray eyes as they moved to his XO.  Malcolm was trying hard to appear unperturbed, and maybe if he hadn't known him so well he _would_ have missed it, but his tactical officer was definitely uneasy at this turn of events.

The Vulcan moved the couple of steps to stand opposite the lieutenant, so close that she could have reached out and touched him.  “Lieutenant,” she said, her voice low and steady, “as the Head of Security on this ship I am quite sure you are aware of my past history of service.”

“I was given access to as much of your files as Starfleet possesses, Sub-Commander,” he replied guardedly, after a moment.

“And given your past history, I am quite sure that you know that for a time I was in the service of the V’Shar.”

Reed blinked and licked his lips briefly, but didn't bother to deny it.  It was obvious that he had as little idea as the captain as to where this was leading.

He wasn't left to wonder for long.  “I will not pretend that even the V’Shar have definite knowledge,” she went on, “but there have been … suggestions that certain, chosen Section 31 operatives are put through some form of special treatment that makes them particularly suggestible to the commands of their ‘handlers’.  Effectively, they are conditioned to obey – even against their better judgment.  It makes them highly specialized, and highly useful, tools.”

As she spoke, what little color there was drained out of Malcolm’s face.  If he hadn't been so perfectly braced, Jon suspected he might have swayed where he stood.

“You are, of course, still bound by whatever terms of confidentiality the Section imposed upon you,” T'Pol continued, still with that glacial calm.  “I will ask only this one question, and you may refuse to answer if you so choose: ‘Does such a treatment exist?’”

Reed shot a hunted glance at the captain, and licked his lips again.  “Yes,” he said almost soundlessly.

Jon sat back in his chair, stunned.  It seemed that his decision had been made for him.  If Malcolm had been turned into the Section’s mindlessly obedient puppet – and the question of whether he’d been one of these ‘chosen operatives’ was really quite academic, given that appalled pallor – then no way could he continue on board _Enterprise._ The strange thing was that he himself wasn't even sure whether he was grateful to T'Pol for coming out with this decisive piece of information; granted that it made the decision a formality, but also in some way the death of what had hardly felt like hope was more painful than he’d have imagined.

In that moment it was plain to him that he _had_ been hoping, somehow, for a miracle; hoping that somehow someone could say something that would turn the dictates of reason inside out, something that would allow him to go with his heart rather than his head.

But a captain couldn't afford to go with his heart – he’d learned that lesson long ago.  If he was to take the flagship of the Fleet into battle against the Romulans, he couldn't afford to have a potential traitor among his officers.

He looked at Malcolm and felt both regret and revulsion.  Regret, _genuine_ regret, for a fine officer and a man he’d thought of as a friend.  And even more heartfelt regret, for the loss of the weapons officer that – had things been different – he’d have had no hesitation in believing was the best for the job of keeping _Enterprise_ safe in the war he still believed was coming.  But the revulsion was uncontrollable.  Another secret that Malcolm had kept from him, and for a damn good reason!  Whatever remorse he might feel, however the guilt for his actions might tear him, when push came to shove he’d obey the Section first.  And that was a truth Jon could simply not accept.

No, harder than accept: not forgive.

“I’m sure you’ll understand, Lieutenant,” he began tautly, but he was interrupted.

Malcolm.  Interrupting him.  He was so startled that his instinctive, rage-filled bellow died in his throat.

“I understand perfectly, Captain.”  The Brit was shaking, whether with grief or shame or fury there was no telling.  “I understand that you’ll now use that as an excuse to be rid of me, without even giving me a hearing.  Very well.  I won’t contest it.  I've made all the arrangements.  You’ll find everything in perfect order for my replacement, whenever he or she arrives.”

“If I may, Lieutenant.”  T'Pol’s even voice was the antithesis of his bitterness.  “I did not reveal the information about your conditioning in order to ‘out’ you, as the human expression is.”

He glared at her.  “With respect, Sub-Commander, it was hardly likely to enhance my already poor prospects of remaining on board.”

“On the contrary,” she said serenely.  “I would not have fulfilled my duty to the captain if I had not established what I suspected to be the truth.  But on the other hand, it is clear to me that whatever conditioning you received was of limited extent.  Had you still been loyal to the Section, you would not have exposed yourself to discovery and disgrace; you were far too useful where you were.”

“He still could be, if he stayed,” Jon interjected.  The anger inside him threatened to change direction; T'Pol’s arguments were confusing him.  On one hand she’d given him the absolute reason why he shouldn't – why he  _couldn't_ – keep Reed on board, and now she appeared to be suggesting that this ‘conditioning’ wasn't the problem it appeared to be.  And how she could figure that out was beyond him.

“As the captain has already stated, you have given him your loyalty from the very start of the mission.  I am aware, as he is aware, that this has not always been easy for you.”  No; there had been times when the exigencies of their mission in the Expanse had demanded behavior that must have weighed heavily on the man’s conscience.  Just as it had – and still did – on his own.

The thought triggered a question.  Before he could think better of it, Jon leaned forward and asked, “When you worked for the Section, did you torture anyone?”

The briefest pause.  Reed’s gaze turned inwards.  “Yes.”

It was clear that he understood exactly what train of thought had triggered that question, for almost before the surge of rage at his hypocrisy had begun to gather way, his eyes snapped back to the captain’s, with an answering rage naked in them.  “And that’s exactly what gives me the right to judge, sir.  What made me sick seeing you go down the same route – a man I respected, _looked up to_ , sinking to the levels I’d done. 

“I did what I had to do, no more, no less.  Do I have regrets?  You’ll never know how many.  Do I believe that what I did was necessary?  Yes.  Absolutely.  Would I do it again?  In the same circumstances, probably. Just as you would – if you had to.

“As for why I joined the Section, I've already admitted I was young, foolish – looking for adventure.  Among other things, I’ll admit.”  His mouth twisted briefly, his anger dying.  “I was useful.  I was _good_ at getting the job done.But I made the decision to leave because I discovered in the end that that life wasn't what I wanted.  Something like this…”  For a moment his hands unclasped from behind his back, long enough for the left to gesture around him in a movement plainly intended to encompass _Enterprise_ rather than the Ready Room in which he stood on trial.  But then, as he clasped them again and returned to parade rest, he let out a sigh that seemed fetched up from his guts.  “Maybe none of us can escape our past.”

“That is not possible, Lieutenant,” T'Pol’s voice intruded on the heavy pause that followed.  “But it need not dictate our future if we are determined enough.”

Reed’s shoulders hadn't drooped; he was far too rigid for that.  But his face was a mask of despair.  “Mine seems to have dictated my future already.”

“Not necessarily.”  Her gaze on him was piercing.  “If you are willing to work with me, I believe that it is possible I may be able to undo at least some of your conditioning.”

It was plain that the lieutenant had not expected that.  He looked shaken and wary.  Small wonder; it was pretty obvious that ‘help’ of this type would be intrusive, deeply intrusive, and he was a man who had always hidden himself in the shadows … in more ways than one, it seemed.

“My success will depend ultimately on your determination,” the Vulcan went on.  “It is unlikely that I will be able to undo it, but with your co-operation it should be possible to reduce it to an instinct within your control.

“It will not be easy; nothing worth achieving ever is.  But I would not offer you hope if I did not believe it ultimately possible.”  The brown eyes traveled to Jon.  “This is naturally conditional upon your agreement, and the captain’s willingness to retain your services.  To take a risk on both of us, in effect.”

“Then I agree,” Reed said a little hoarsely, after barely a minute.  He carefully didn't look at the captain, but returned his gaze to his favorite bulkhead, waiting for the verdict.

Jon stood up and moved to the window, mostly to give himself the illusion of privacy while he pondered. 

Moments ago, he’d been convinced that the right thing to do – the _only_ thing to do – was to get shot of a self-confessed traitor.  But T'Pol wouldn't have made this offer if she hadn't thought it the best course for the ship.  And there were the years of selfless service to be taken into account; too many moments of shared danger and adventure, and of course the good times, for there had been many, looking back: right back to that moment in the Armory when Hoshi had come in with that packing case and opened it to reveal a pineapple-flavored birthday cake.  There had been no mistaking the look of shy, embarrassed pleasure on Malcolm’s face as he took his first taste – as though he’d finally realized he was among friends.

Friends…

There had been times, during the harrowing months in the Expanse, when he hadn't treated Malcolm as a friend.  There had been occasions he looked back on with shame, praying that the lieutenant had understood that it was the intolerable strain of the mission that had made him act in a way that was so utterly foreign to his nature.

Turn that fact around, and it cast a different light on Malcolm’s behavior.  One that made his own that of an absolute hypocrite.  The excuse was good enough for himself, but not for his officer.  The realization was so appalling he could only imagine how much self-control it must have taken for Reed not to have spat it back at him during that hideous exchange in the Brig.

 _‘You put him in an impossible position.’_   How come he could acknowledge that to Harris, but not to himself?

Do you give up on a friend when you find they’re not flawless after all?  That they're actually as human as you are yourself?

He was the captain of a starship.  He couldn't afford to make decisions on the basis of friendship.  But he was also a human being.  His rationale, his captaincy, had always been influenced by his ‘gut feelings’; maybe too strongly in the beginning, and learning to change that had been a painful but necessary process.  Nevertheless, in his book there still was a place for instinct when it came to people.  Maybe the greatest part of the pain and revulsion the revelation of his tactical officer’s perfidy had brought about was because it contradicted everything his instinct said about the man.

The revelation was still there.  The facts were still there.  But his instinct still said _You can trust him._

And when it came to moral behavior, maybe it was true that those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.  His own behavior back in the Expanse had hardly been irreproachable either.

He gazed out at the stars, and seemed to see the future leading away into darkness.  Somewhere out there, the Romulans were plotting.  He could sense it.  The drone ships hadn't been an idle venture.  If he was sure of anything, he was sure of that.  And when war came, as war _would_ come, _Enterprise_ would need to have a sure hand manning the Tactical Station, just as she would every other station aboard.  And war was a dirty business.  Maybe, Jon thought heavily, the time would come when it would be useful to have another man on board who was willing to do what was ‘necessary’ as opposed to what was ‘right’.

The day had been when he’d have been horrified by that thought.  Now it lay on his soul like just another burden – one he had to shoulder in the duty of keeping _Enterprise_ safe through what lay ahead.

Did he, could he, should he, trust Malcolm Reed?

Well.  Maybe not as unthinkingly as he once had.  But with T’Pol’s help, her support, surely it was worth the effort to keep together a crew he still believed was the strongest in the Fleet?

She believed the damage could be undone.  Some of it, if not all.  But who knew?  Wasn't being out here at all a risk in itself?  And didn't those years of faithful service deserve some kind of acknowledgement?

He sighed.

Forgiveness was maybe too big an ask, at least for a while.  At least _total_ forgiveness.  Like any wound, the wound to their relationship would heal, maybe, over time.  But what was needed now was as much an act of the head as the heart.  Logic, as T'Pol would say of course.  And his XO had given him a lifeline that he could grasp if he chose.

A chance.  Not a certainty.

And a chance would probably be the best any of them could hope for, if the future unfolded as he feared it would.

He turned back from the window.

T'Pol had moved slightly, turning to stand almost beside Malcolm.  She was standing immobile too, waiting for his decision.  The realization came to him what a formidable team they made.

A team he wanted to have on his ship.

“I've made my decision.”  He looked at Malcolm.  “I’m restoring you to your post, unconditionally.  Except for the one condition that’ll be strictly between the three of us – that you work with T'Pol here, to overcome this … conditioning.  And that you commit to whatever that requires, without reservation.”  He took a breath.  “I’m not going to pretend that it’s going to be easy, maybe for a while.  But I guess you deserve a second chance.  It’s up to you whether you want to take it.”

“I am not offering you something either of us will find easy or pleasant, Lieutenant,” said T'Pol quietly.  “Captain Archer will find it hard to trust you, and you will find it hard to trust me as deeply as you will need to if this is to succeed.  But perhaps for all of us, the effort will prove worthwhile in the end.”

Malcolm swallowed, looking from one to the other of them.  For just a moment, Jon caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like before the Section cast its shadow across him: young, vulnerable, unsure.  Then the moment passed, and he summoned the familiar resolute mask before bowing his head.  “Then I accept and – I’m grateful.”

Some further gesture was necessary.

In one way it was so simple: the matter of a couple of steps.  In another, it was an impossibility: the spanning of an abyss.

This had happened once before.  So long ago it seemed, they’d both been utterly different people; strangers, assessing one another with the great adventure laid out before them like a shining road.

Well, the road had turned out to be not quite as shining as it had promised.  It had contained bumps and pitfalls, and they’d fallen over or down quite a few of them, mostly despite the best efforts of the man before him to keep them out of trouble.  How many times had his cautions been heard but not heeded, even thanklessly dismissed as ‘paranoia’, when his entire intent had been to bring back the whole ship’s complement intact?

Jon took a pace forward.  It seemed that Malcolm read his intention, for suddenly the gray eyes were wary again.

It was not like last time.  Now they knew each other too well, could read the scars.  And Reed was perhaps not quite ready to be touched – not after the lacerating words in the Brig.  In hindsight Jon could have bitten his tongue out for uttering some of them.

Nevertheless, he was taking a chance.  Both of them knew how huge a chance it was.  And that needed … something, some affirmation that both of them were willing to commit to this new relationship that was to be built on the ruins of the old.

He held out his hand.

For a few seconds longer Malcolm hesitated, while gray searched hazel, seeking answers.  Then, slowly, the Brit’s hand came out in response: not tentatively, but as though exploring the meaning of the action.

Palm met palm, and fingers grasped.

It should have been enough, but Jon had always been more tactile than that.  Almost before he’d realized what he was doing, his left hand came up to clasp his tactical officer lightly around the shoulder.  His reflexes had done what felt natural – treated the other man as a friend.  And in response, the faintest smile lightened the intensity of Malcolm’s expression, and the handshake endured just a second longer than formality demanded.

Jon stepped back again.  “Sub-Commander, draw up a schedule for working with Lieutenant Reed on the treatment you suggested.  I’ll expect a schedule with the details to be on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Captain.” His XO’s voice was as level as always, but as he met her gaze he thought he read satisfaction in it.

“Then I’m sure the both of you have duties on the Bridge,” he said.  “Dismissed.”

“Captain.”  Reed drew himself up still further – it hardly seemed possible, but he managed it – and performed a smart about–turn.  He fairly marched the couple of steps to the door and up to the Bridge.  The door hissed shut behind him.

T'Pol, however, lingered for just a moment.  “Congratulations, Captain,” she said softly.

Jon achieved a smile.  “But for you, I’d be down a Tactical Officer.  I owe you one.”  He sobered quickly.  “This – treatment.  Do you have any doubts?”

“I would not have suggested it if so.  It will not be pleasant.  In fact, it may well be very painful indeed.  But I am confident of a happy outcome in the course of time.”

“Then I’m glad you feel able to offer it.”  The captain hesitated.  “May I ask _why_ you did?”

The Vulcan’s eyes turned to the viewing port.  Her expression was somber.  “Those who perform the _kahs-wan_ must learn to anticipate a storm before it strikes, if they are to survive.  I am able to read the signs as well as you do, Captain.  There is a storm coming, and _Enterprise_ will need its crew to be at its greatest strength if we are to have any hope of surviving it.

"Naturally, I had Mister Reed's interests at heart; he has always been a loyal and valuable officer to you.  I also suspected that if you decided to dismiss him, it would be an injustice you would later come to regret.  But it seemed to me that more was at stake than either your welfare or his.  It may be that not only Earth's survival, but Vulcan's also, may one day at least partly depend on  _Enterprise_  remaining strong.”

Somehow the answer was no surprise.  All Jon could feel was bitterness that although the signs were so clear to read out here on what would be the front line, the desk-jockeys back at Starfleet Command apparently had their hands over their eyes, determined not to see what was goddamn in front of them.

“When I took command all I wanted to be was an explorer,” he said on another sigh, sitting at the desk again.  “Now I guess I’d better take a crash course in being a military commander.  I’m not looking forward to it."

“The alternative is a crash course in slavery,” she replied levelly.  “Make no mistake, Captain.  The Romulan Empire has a history of being ruthless in its expansion.  Sooner or later, its gaze will turn this way.  All we can do is be prepared.”

“Does the High Command share that opinion?”

“The High Command is fully aware of the nature of the Romulans’ ambition.”  There were shadows in that reply, but by now he knew when she wasn’t going to expand on something.  He was therefore not surprised when in the next breath she requested permission to also return to the Bridge.

 Maybe eventually she’d be a little more forthcoming, but it sure wouldn't happen for the asking.  He was learning.

 “Permission granted.”  And as she turned away, he added, “And thank you.”

 A last glance back, and a nod.  Then she was gone.

 For a few minutes Jon sat on in silence, mulling over what had happened.  Suddenly he felt extremely tired again, almost too tired to feel the relief he knew he should.  Maybe that would come later too.

 Then, as though the stars outside were drawing him, he got to his feet again and went back to the window. 

 Somewhere out there….

  _The High Command is fully aware of the nature of the Romulans’ ambition._

Maybe the damned High Command would see fit to share their insights with Starfleet one of these days.  Or maybe they were willing to wait till the wolf was at the door, and it was too late to do anything about it. 

 There was Soval, though; for all that their initial relationship had been anything but amicable, lately the crusty Ambassador had begun to seem more …. well, it was unlikely he’d thank anyone for calling him ‘more human’, but slowly the thaw of mutual respect and esteem had set in.  If anyone in the High Command could be relied on, Soval was the man.

 Outside, the infinite darkness of space was lit by streaks of light.  Hope in the face of darkness. 

_In the end, I guess hope is all we have.  It’s what lets us believe in ourselves, in the future…and in each other._

He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. 

 War was coming. 

 But it wouldn’t find _Enterprise_ unprepared.

 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always really appreciated!


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